The stewards new groove
by Tosseract
Summary: Gandalf has a run-in with the steward of Dongor, and his ailing son Faramir. Tension and excitement abound in this serious exploration of heroism and friendship during the greatest war Middle-earth has ever laid witness to.


The stewards new groove.

From across the stony battlements of the ancient city of Dongor, the thrusting edifices of which jutted skyward, lancing desperately at the heavens, effortlessly skewering the occasional yielding cloud with their smooth, condensation-slick buttresses, Gandalf heard the echoing bark of the steward. Buttocks twitching sternly, Gandalf minced teasingly along the ancient parapets, dodging effortlessly between the mighty pylons and sweating embrace of the troops, tongue dancing hesitantly between his slightly parted teeth as he pushed through the heavy curtains of the stewards inner sanctum.

"You call this a tomato? I call it your grave!" Shrieked the steward, furiously swabbing his mottled flesh with filthy oil-soaked rags. The unlucky bearer of the insuffient fruit moaned grimly as leather-clad guards burst from behind the throne, clutching at the luckless man with still-clammy hands. The matter taken care of, the steward turned his attention to Gandalf, who flinched slightly as the stewards raging trouser-tent pointed toward him like an accusation.

"I hope you bring good news, oh wizard of the white!" spat the steward teasingly, his eyes scanning in full, luxuriant detail the creamy white expanses of gandalfs taught, muscular chest, barely hidden beneath robes so short as to be almost scandalous. His thin-lipped grin was almost a grimace, and the swipes of his rags slowed to an almost agonizingly slow caress. At his feet, faramir groaned thickly, plates of congealed oil oozing off his bare chest as he writhed painfully, attempting once again to clothe himself.

"You asshole! You're dead! Stop wriggling!" crooned the steward breathily, lurching drunkenly to one knee and lovingly streaking the oil-cloth against his son's stark collarbone. Once more faramir writhed, this time in an attempt to escape from the burgeoning erection of the steward, that hung damply three inches from his right eye. The steward noticed not, biting sensuously into another fat tomato, his gaunt jaw working with the ease of long practice. His teeth punctured the taut crimson surface, elicting a tight jet of juice. His careworn tongue darting out furiously in response, lapping the juice without mercy. The pulp tore with a damp ripping sound like wet cloth, his gullet pumping in response to the sudden influx. He choked slightly as a seed caught somewhere in the dark recesses of his festering maw. Gandalf raises an eyebrow, shivering ever so slightly in the clammy warmth of the stewards chambers.

"Excellent gag reflex my lord." He gargled thickly, observing with a slight thrill the red juice hanging jauntily from the stewards sparce facial hairs. His face gave away nothing, but his traitorous buttocks spoke volumes, the knotty and formidable glutes working in silent harmony. The steward pursed his damp lips in sweaty anticipation, the crotch of his trousers held out like a mast in the wind. an errant cool draught streamered through the the steamy chamber, caressing gandalfs hard, muscular back. He gave a carefree flex, tearing his skimpy robes from his back. They wafted to the floor discretely, settling in a puddle of oil and juice. The stewards jawline tensed as he rammed his mouth hard against the pulped remains of the tomato, gagging painfully against the abundant wet mass. Juice flowed freely onto his chest, seeds entwining lovingly in his thick forest of chesthair. A single drop emerged puckishly from his nose. Gandalfs buttocks positively spasmed at that, barely still within his control: he knew he could not hold on for long. Faramir moaned once more, a thin mewling like bubbles in treacle. Still kneeling, the steward leered down at him. Beads of the blood-red fluid span weightlessly through the air as they fell from the stewards lips, cascading onto the man's gaunt but powerful chest. His eyes fluttered as the torrent stuck, his tongue moving of its own accord to lap at the sweet flowing nectar. The steward grinned triumphantly.

"That's a lad! You'll learn, just as boromir did!" the rag slithered flabbily against his bulging biceps, every vein shining like burnished bronze. he leaned in ever-closer, flecks of tomato spattering on faramirs cheek like rusty condensation. their lips quivered, a bare quarter-inch apart. the gap closed...

"Stop!" The grunt rang out in the greasy half-light. Gandalf gave an involuntary yelp as his powerful buns jumped in recognition of the speaker. He turned his sweat-damp chest to face them. Aragorn, king of dongor strode into the chamber, dressed in the ceremonial garb of the ancient kings: naught but thigh high leather boots and a single coin-sized steel disc, cunningly placed to thwart invasions from the rear. Erect he stood, stiff and straight as the citadel he ruled, head pointing proudly skyward.

"You are on my throne, steward." He gave a brisk shake of his golden tresses, and gandalf could hold out no more. He swooned to the floor, buttocks dancing with a life of their own. For him, the long fight was finally over.


End file.
